


lambs are sacrificed (but rats survive)

by abatt0ir



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game), Halloween (2018), Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fearplay, Forced Orgasm, Groping, Knifeplay, Knives, Overstimulation, Size Difference, Vaginal Fingering, hey guys this one is more intense than the usual stuff i write, like the dick is objectively good but also you dont wanna die, listen stabbing as a metaphor for sex is overdone but i live on cliches, michael myers has a monster cock we all knew it okay, michael myers may inexplicably know how to drive but i dont think he does consent, non-con, please read the tags and warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:00:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28167396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abatt0ir/pseuds/abatt0ir
Summary: The single lightbulb behind you sends his enormous silhouette into stark relief, but you can still see the front of his boiler suit smeared black with blood.Michael Myers, Haddonfield's Bogeyman, cocks his head at you - and you run.
Relationships: Michael Myers/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 179





	lambs are sacrificed (but rats survive)

**Author's Note:**

> server secret santa gave me my buddy rat (alien-rat on tumblr, give her a follow, she's an incredible artist), who is very small and very nasty, so i wrote a nasty myers/small!reader fic. i put as much love and gross as i could into this! happy holidays, rat, you're a real one. thank u playing phasmophobia with me, even though i suck at finding fingerprints.
> 
> (also, gentle reader, please check out the tags before reading, as this is much more intense than my other work!)

Your phone, battery stone cold dead, weighs heavy as a brick in your pocket.

You really should have taken them up on the opportunity to charge it, but the walk between your house and the one you babysit at is just barely fifteen minutes, and you didn't want to be a bother. Now, the chilly winter air biting cruelly at your nose and fingertips, the silence disturbed only by the crunch of your shoes on chilly pavement, you kind of wish you'd gotten just enough juice to put on a podcast or play a few songs. 

Or to call 911. 

At the end of the street, you eye catches a flash of movement, something large and slow, moving behind a row of parked cars. It's not completely out of the ordinary for pedestrians to be out this late - you are, after all - but your stomach sours just the littlest bit, not yet scared, just _aware_. Everyone in Haddonfield knows to be aware, it's in the DNA of this town, in the air and the water and the earth. Everyone knows that it is sometimes smart, to be afraid. 

By the time your trajectory takes you past the line of dark vehicles, the street is once again empty, and you allow relief to lay flat the hairs on the back of your neck. Probably just some insomniac suburbanite, taking out the trash, or having a cigarette on the curb. Rows of shuttered windows regard you blankly as you pass, saltbox colonials with sagging porches and overgrown yards, Haddonfielders sleeping soundly within. 

A noise breaks the silence: a loud, prolonged crash, followed by an inhuman, almost animal yelp.

(The kind of sound it's not _really_ karmically neutral to ignore.)

Telegraphing the sound to its origin finds you nervously approaching an open garage just around the corner. Coming at it from the side, you can only see the opposite wall, dimly illuminated by what is probably a single bulb - a feebly moving shadow informs you there is, in fact, something afoot. You open your mouth, then close it, unsure of what to say. "Uh," _nailing this,_ "everything okay in there?" You manage to croak, cold fingers clutching your useless phone. Another clatter, and an empty paint can rolls down the driveway, and into the street. 

"Hello?"

Clenching your jaw against a wave of nauseous anxiety, you step out into the drive, finally able to see into poorly-lit gloom. 

The face of the woman on the cold concrete floor, _and it must be her face because it's on the front of her head but it certainly doesn't look like a face anymore_ , is an obscene concave, a slick marble bowl overflowing with hot, scarlet gore. Your body reacts with sudden, violent intensity, at the absolute wrongness of it, at the negative space where bone and skin should be, unrecognizable as anything other than raw meat save for the row of broken teeth still suspended in the dripping jaw. _Scream_ , your brain issues the order, _scream **now**_ , but the synapses can't quite connect, your diaphragm clenches in sick horror but there's no air in your slack lungs.

All you manage is a squeak. 

Stumbling away from the nightmare laid out before you, you turn on unsteady legs, only to see standing at the end of the drive - 

_Him_. 

The single lightbulb behind you sends his enormous silhouette into stark relief, but you can still see the front of his boiler suit smeared black with blood.

Michael Myers, Haddonfield's Bogeyman, cocks his head at you - and you _run_.

Your knees threaten to give out, your throat burns as you try to force lungfuls of air, fear making you numb and clumsy in exactly the wrong way. Getting to the house across the street feels like running a marathon, and raising your fists to pound on the door, to jiggle the handle, takes mammoth effort against the adrenaline making your hands shake uncontrollably. "Help," your voice is ragged, throat tight, not loud enough, "Let me in, please, I-"

The door swings open, unlocked. You have no time to think, to weigh this choice against others, you don't know if you are being followed and just need to call the police-

You duck inside.

\---

It takes you a few long minutes to realize the dreadful mistake you've made.

The foyer of the house is empty, strangely so, not that you really have the time to ponder it. A staircase looms in your field of vision, and your panicked animal brain sends you toward it, taking steps two at a time, past a long landing and up to a second story, clutching the bannister like a lifeline. "Help!" You manage to squawk, "please, someone!"

There is no answering voice, no shuffle of human movement, no light clicks on. And then you see the paint cans, the tarp, the door off its hinges and leaning against the far wall. This house is under construction.

No people. No lights. No _phone_. 

Spinning on your heel, you lurch back towards the stairs. But not in time. The door you left obscenely ajar lets a shaft of pale moonlight in, across the unfinished marble floor of the foyer, and you watch in mute horror as a shape fills it - enormous, so tall he must duck his head to fit through the door frame, a brick wall of mass murderer topped with the infamous mask. The soulless black pits he has, poor excuses for human eyes, stare up at you. 

Alone, in an empty and unfamiliar house. Your heart thuds against your chest, bile rising in your throat - you're caught. 

(A rat, panicked, in an unforgiving trap.)

Michael walks with slow, purposeful steps towards the bottom of the staircase. You consider, briefly, wildly, waiting until he's reached the landing, then throwing yourself over the balcony. You _might_ survive it. 

(A rat, panicked, chewing off its own leg.)

Or you might break every bone in your body, and die of sheer stupidity - which might be preferable to death by stabbing, but at least the latter you might be able to escape. If you can keep your wits about you, and your legs beneath you, maybe you can outwit the predator. Escape the trap.

(A rat, panicked, with delusions of salvation).

The only option is one of the other rooms on the top floor, maybe you can hide well enough for him to pass you by, and you can make a mad dash for the exit. The hallway is terrifyingly dark, and you stumble into a painters tray, knocking two-by-fours into your path with a clatter that echoes through the empty house. The master bedroom looks promising, and the large closet provides ample space for you to crouch, breathing hard, staring through the slats for any sign of movement. You can hear him ascending the stairs, heavy boots thudding on the hardwood, moving slowly, inexorably, towards you. The bedroom door creaks open, and your heart makes every effort to vault itself into your throat. Adrenaline muddled with terror tastes like copper on your tongue, electric, like ozone, like sucking on an ice-cold penny.

Myers makes no effort to hide himself, to stalk you silently - he knows just as well as you that the trap is already sprung. But maybe, if you hope hard enough, he'll move on to the next room.

And, miraculously, he _does._

You can see the bulk of him slide back out into the hallway, just barely, in the darkness, but it's enough. Taking a deep breath, and then another, you prepare yourself, creeping out of the closet as quietly as you can, and then - sprinting for the stairs. 

(The rat, eyes on the cheese, does not see the cat until it is far too _late_ ).

You don't quite see him, only in your periphery, but he is standing just outside the door, waiting for you, in his hands a length of loose cord that is flung about your neck, aborting your trajectory with a violent jerk. The bottom falls out of the world. Cold terror turns your blood to ice in your veins, fills your stomach with slush, tries to send a shout scrambling up your throat but finds immoveable resistance there. Michael drags you backwards, using the cord like a leash to wrangle an unruly dog, until you are flush against him, your back to his chest. Only now can you understand how truly enormous he is - not just in comparison to you, a tiny thing in his monstrous hands, but so huge and solid that he is more a wall than a man, blank and hard. You could beat your fists against his chest for a year, and end up with nothing but bruised palms for your trouble. 

Darkness, fuzzy, like static, starts to build at the corners of your vision as you fight for a breath. Horrible, wet noises ooze from your throat, but he pays them no mind - why would he? - and starts to drag bodily you down the hall. You weigh nothing to him, _are_ nothing to him, just a small animal wiggling in the grip of a violent god. 

Wrenching your head to the side, you can see that in his right hand, the one that isn't dragging your sorry ass, that he's gripping a kitchen knife, with all the surety of someone who really, really knows how to use it. You struggle harder. Your violent thrashing causes your sweater to ride up, exposing your tits, nipples already tight peaks from the cold, the cold and the _fear_. 

At the end of the hall is what appears to be a mostly unfinished bathroom, just loose tile and raw concrete and a sink. Michael drops you, abruptly, splaying you out on the cold floor, finally allowing you a deep, ragged breath. Dragging air into your lungs burns, but you shudder through it, desperate for the ounce of clarity oxygen might provide. 

Michael regards you, all heaving chest and fear-sweat, the mask that serves as his face watching you petrifying blankness. The thing before you is a monster, black pits for eyes and a rubber seam for a mouth, a shock of tangled synthetic hair. If you could see his eyes, his mouth, some proof he was just a man, you might have felt less of the bone-deep certainty that you were going to die tonight. Your panicky gaze finds, at the very base of the mask's neck, an inch of real skin, rising and falling with deep, even breaths. 

_Just a man._

The eye-line of the mask dips, just slightly, and you have the sudden, confusing realization that he's staring at your exposed chest. He tilts his head, the bemused facial expression painted on his not-a-face revealing nothing.

Then, he raises his booted foot and brings it down, hard, on your chest, pinning you the floor. Your so recently acquired breath is knocked right back out of you, a starburst of pain radiating across your sternum. You squirm pitifully, a butterfly trapped by a pin, watching in horrified fascination as one large hand, the one not holding the knife, the one that so recently dragged you down the hallway like a side of beef, comes up to that tantalizing inch of flesh at his throat, and finds the zipper of his jumpsuit.

_Oh._

The grubby white t-shirt beneath strains over the bulk of his chest - not only is Myers physically enormous, but he's built like a brick wall, all mean, hard muscle. It's a strange thing, to see so much of his skin, his forearms and hands so shockingly human, and so capable of incredible violence. You wriggle under his boot, it so large and you so small that it seems to cover your entire chest, pinning you thoroughly and inexorably, squashing your lungs such that all you can do is wheeze. 

Freed of the top half of his boiler suit, he reaches down one mammoth hand to take you by the throat, picking you up as easily as he might a kitten. Your head swims with visions of him smashing your head against the porcelain sink, thick gobs of your hearts blood vividly, obscenely red against the porcelain. You imagine him forcing you to stare into the mirror at your own unrecognizable face as you bleed out, drooling thick, salty pink spit, eyes rolling backwards into your shattered skull. You imagine him sliding the knife you know is still clenched confidently in his right hand between your ribs, slicing through the cage of your chest, nicking the balloon of your lungs, suffocating you in hot, sticky gouts of arterial gore.

Michael picks you up, and you finally find the strength, the breath, to make a noise.

Your wail, high and thin, echoes off the bathroom tile and Michael slams you, hard, against the wall opposite the mirror. He holds you up by the neck with absolute ease, and it feels like your head is going to pop off - you scrabble ineffectually at his hands with your own for a long moment until he steps in close to you, one hard thigh coming up between your flailing legs, pinning you utterly with his sheer size and strength. Your feet dangle, more than foot off the ground, and his grip at your throat loosens. Your sharp intake of breath is too loud in your ears, a too-soft gasp of - _something_.

Maybe it's because the tug in the pit of your stomach from pure, dizzying terror is not dissimilar to the tight coil of arousal, maybe it's being so close to him, the tight proximity that mimics intimacy, his knee between your legs and his mask inches from yours. Maybe you're just monumentally fucked up. Whatever it is, your treacherous body, high on adrenaline flushes suddenly, paradoxically hot.

Myers presses in closer, and you can feel the warmth of his skin, hear the low huff of his breathing, _feel the steel bar of his cock against his zipper, digging into the soft skin of your hip._

An answer throb of heat pulses low in your belly, despite the abject fear still squeezing your heart. Michael shifts, raising his right hand, the kitchen knife still clutched in his sure fingers, and the room narrows down to that cold steel edge. He presses the flat of it to your exposed throat, and the needle-thin line of sharp, bright pain makes you whimper. Blood gathers there, the bead of it growing fatter until it rolls in a warm, wet line down to nestle in the hollow of your throat. Still as you can manage, your eyes flick up to the expressionless mask, desperation stamped all over your face. The knife goes no further - it's a warning, it's a threat, it's a reminder of who this is and what he does.

Your cunt clenches around nothing, painfully, awfully empty. 

The hand that is not holding a blade to your neck yanks down your bra, finds your exposed tits, palms one roughly, without preamble. His attentions are not designed to arouse you in any way, it seems more like instinct, a base, primal urge at the base of his brain, the same one that compels him to thrust his knife into a warm body until, ahem, completion. His breathing neither slows nor quickens beneath the mask, he the very picture of cold, terrifying, patience. You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror, the slice of you not eclipsed by his bulk - your pupils are blown so wide your eyes look nearly black, a smear of blood colors your quivering throat, you chest heaves with the deep breaths of pure animal panic, thrusting your tender breasts up and into Michael's touch. 

You are tiny, vulnerable, exposed, your sweater rucked up to your neck, your legs forcibly splayed over the knee of a serial killer the size of a mac truck. Pressed this tightly against you, you can feel muscles working in his chest, cords of absolute iron, wound tight and brick-hard. 

Awful, nauseous arousal skates across your nerve endings. 

He abandons your chest, finding the hem of your skirt pulled up around your hips, finding the apex of your thighs where you are shamefully hot and slick. A whimper works its way up your throat, the knife digging fractionally deeper into the tender flesh there, and the whole world seems to still as rough fingers yank your underwear aside. 

Michael plunges two fingers into your cunt - thick, _cruel_ fingers, curling and twisting meanly so as to fit deeper into you. Every instinct screams at you to arch away from him, but to do so would force you to guillotine yourself on the keen edge of his blade. The empty expression on the mask makes it all the more unnerving when he cocks his head again, looking blandly interested as he scissors his digits, making you keen and whine and shake. Might it have been better, you wonder wildly, if he had just bashed your head in and been done with it, left your lifeless body on the landing for some poor construction worked to find come Monday morning? 

Would the big death be easier than the little one? 

The first orgasm comes out of nowhere and hits you like an eighteen-wheeler. Wincing, eyes shut tight, brow furrowed, you suffer through it, panting and whimpering, twisting your hips _just so_ that stars explode behind your lids. Your body shakes, hips rolling minutely against his knee, clit rubbing unceremoniously against his bare wrist, and it all happens at once, a roar in your ears like the crash of the ocean, every muscle taut as a bowstring, adrenaline surging and every synapse misfiring all at once. Your body contracts, hard, a powerful wave of agonizing pleasure spiraling outward from where he has you impaled. 

You doubt making you come was his intention - Michael touches you casually, cruelly, a butcher handling a new and barely interesting piece of meat. You twitch in his grasp and he shoves his fingers deeper, hardly noticing your overstimulated yelp. Feeling the inside of you, as though he couldn't flay you open, and have a look that way. Tender nerves only half manage to transmute pleasure into pain and back again, your body convulsing weakly around the intrusion. 

Relief is fleeting when he removes his hand, reaching down to unzip the boiler suit further before wrapping slick-sticky fingers around your jaw, tilting your head back, exposing the pulse in your throat to him. You feel the blunt head of his cock at the entrance to your body, as terrifyingly large as the rest of him. His massive chest rises and falls more quickly now, a sheen of sweat visible at the collar of his shirt - but that mask, that awful unblinking mask, betrays nothing. You hold your breath, cunt clenching in anticipation, cold dread and hot desire warring in the pit of your stomach. 

He thrusts into you, pinning you to the wall with his hips, and you finally _scream_. 

You scream as the swollen tip forces its way inside - despite the slick heat of your grasping cunt, you are dreadfully, painfully full. It's exquisite, this anguish. You swear if you were to look down you'd see your body stretched to accommodate him, such his his size. Inside the mask, you hear the the heaviness of his breathing, see the tension in his muscles - but for a moment, he holds you utterly still, simply allowing your overstimulated muscles to spasm and contract around his cock. You swear you can feel his pulse in his shaft, pounding, searingly hot, forcing your body to make take him. A fevered sweat breaks out on your brow, a bone-deep shudder racks your body - if he doesn't move his hips, you'll die.

If he does, you still might. 

And then he begins to fuck you. Every forceful thrust of his hips causes your head to jerk backwards and hit the tile, your inner thighs are being rubbed raw from the rough fabric of his jumpsuit, the knife bites at your throat - and you are going to come again. You cry out, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes, the hot twist of climax sending rolls of hot electricity coursing through your limbs. Myers doesn't seem to notice, nor care, simply drills into you, hitting every painfully sensitive spot inside of you, treating your body like nothing more than a sleeve to fuck. The gasps forced out of your throat by his powerful thrusts are maybe of pain, maybe of pleasure, you can't be sure anymore. You feel every inch of him so acutely, when he draws his hips back so just the fat tip of his cock sits at your entrance, and when he drives his hips forward, seating himself completely in the vice of your body, 

He fucks you the same way he followed you up the stairs - deliberate, purposeful, a thudding rhythm that is driving you absolutely mad. He fucks you, and you know that this instinct is the same one that drives him to kill. Something base and animal. Thrusting into the slick warmth of your body, making you hot and wet and yielding, forcing you scream and shake and beg - it's all the same. He's fucking you. Or maybe he's stabbing you. It doesn't matter. The corkscrew of orgasm begins to wind tight again in your belly, raw and agonizing and _delicious_. 

He does not stop. Even though are a sniveling wreck, head tilted back against the tile, whispering wet babble to the bathroom ceiling. The shallow cut at your neck weeps blood down your chest, your tits, your belly. 

His hips snap forward, pace faltering just slightly, the breathing beneath the mask more labored now. His hand at your jaw tightens, the delicate bones there threatening to snap beneath the brute force of his fingers. He presses even closer to you, squashing the breath from your lungs, and now, barely a foot from his face, you can see through the eyeholes and into the mask, just for a second. Blue eyes. Cold, predatory frenzy. Sweat. Blood. 

The angle changes, deepens, and another starburst crosses your vision - you choke on a low wail, overstimulated now to the point of incoherency. He drives himself deeper, harder, rutting into you now - if before had been the chase, this was the kill. Weakly struggling, all but forgetting the knife at your neck, against the onslaught of sensation - it's too much, you are delirious with _want_ and with _hurt_ , your body being forced towards another violent, agonizing climax. Panic rears like a startled horse inside of you, you can't, not _again_ , your overtaxed body isn't capable of it. Thrashing against him is useless, like throwing yourself at wall of cinderblocks - but you are struck with the sudden clarity of what is happening, that you are coming on a serial killers cock, that you will likely end this night smeared across the classy marble floors of this quaint two-story colonial, that none of this is right, that your body has betrayed you in every conceivable way. 

And it does so again, now, another long loud scream clawing up your throat as the orgasm rips its way across your nerve endings, forcing your spine into a deep arch, your hands to grasp at his biceps, and your cunt to convulse around his punishing cock. Michael isn't through with you quite yet, spearing you once, twice, three times, immobilizing you with the sheer power of his massive body - then drags himself away, hot jets of come splattering your thighs, your cunt, your bare and bloody stomach. The hand at your jaw releases, and you collapse, in a heap, on the cold tile, rouse only by the zipper that sounds faintly in your ear.

You turn your head just in time to see him contemplate the knife.

That darkness begins to eat at the corners of your vision again, and this time, you don't fight it. 

\---

_"Six confirmed deaths tonight in Haddonfield, and local legend Michael Myers is still at large. The sole survivor of the spree killer was found just outside an abandoned house on Mission Street, with only minor injuries."_

From your hospital bed, you contemplate the six smiling faces of the slain - each young, and lovely, and _dead_. Why your viscera is still inside your body is a mystery. A miracle.

A secret you will take to your grave. 

(The lamb is sacrificed, but the rat?

The rat _survives_ ).


End file.
